UC-NRLF 


15fl 


o 


PUBLISHER'S  NOTE. 

THE  Yale  Series  of  Younger  Poets  is  designed  to  afford  a  publishing 
medium  for  the  work  of  young  men  and  women  who  have  not  yet 
secured  a  wide  public  recognition.  It  will  include  only  such  verse  as 
seems  to  give  the  fairest  promise  for  the  future  of  American  poetry ', — 
to  the  development  of  which  it  is  hoped  that  the  Series  may  prove  a 
stimulus.  Communications  concerning  manuscripts  should  be  addressed 
to  the  Editor,  Professor  Charlton  M.  Lewis,  425  St.  Ronan  Street, 
New  Haven,  Connecticut. 

VOLUMES  ISSUED,  OR  PLANNED  FOR 
EARLY   PUBLICATION 

I.  THE  TEMPERING.  By  Howard  Buck. 
II.  FORGOTTEN  SHRINES.  By  John  Chipman  Farrar. 

III.  FOUR  GARDENS.  By  David  Osborne  Hamilton. 

IV.  SPIRES  AND  POPLARS.  By  Alfred  Raymond  Bellinger. 

V.  THE   WHITE    GOD   AND   OTHER    POEMS.   By    Thomas    Caldecot 

Chubb. 

VI.  WHERE  LILITH  DANCES.  By  Darl  Macleod  Boyle. 
VII.  WILD  GEESE.  By   Theodore  H.  Banks,  Jr. 
VIII.  HORIZONS.  By  Viola  C.  White. 
IX.  WAMPUM  AND  OLD  GOLD.  By  Hervey  Allen. 
X.  THE  GOLDEN  DARKNESS.  By  Oscar  Williams. 
XL  WHITE  APRIL.  By  Harold  Vinal. 
XII.  DREAMS  AND  A  SWORD.  By  Medora  C.  Addison. 

XIII.  HIDDEN  WATERS.  By  Bernard  Raymund. 

XIV.  ATTITUDES.  By  Paul  Tanaquil. 


Attitudes 


PAUL  TANAQUIL 


NEW  HAVEN  •  YALE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

LONDON  •  HUMPHREY  MILFORD  •  OXFORD  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

MDCCCCXXII 


COPYRIGHT,    1922,   BY 
YALE   UNIVERSITY  PRESS 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT. 

FOR  gracious  permission  to  reproduce  in  this  collection  certain 
pieces  which  first  appeared  in  their  magazines,  the  author 
is  grateful  to  the  editors  and  publishers  of  the  following 
periodicals:  Poetry -,  A  Magazine  of  Verse;  Contemporary 
Verse;  Voices;  Tempo;  The  Lyric;  The  Lyric  West;  The 
American  Poetry  Magazine;  The  Wave;  Pearson's;  The 
Forum;  Vogue;  The  Smart  Set;  Munsey's;  Shadowland; 
Snappy  Stories;  Live  Stories;  The  Motion  Picture  Classic; 
Telling  Tales;  The  Occident;  The  Haverfordian;  The  Colle 
giate  World;  and  The  Berkeley  Times. 


2  9. *J3  6 


CONTENTS. 

THE  BURDEN  OF  BEAUTY  : 

Dedication        .          .                     .          .          •          •  13 

Passee     ...                      .  14 

A  Very  Young  Man  Speaks        .          .          .          .  14 

Moment            .                 .    .          •          •          •          •  15 

A  Very  Young  Girl's  Song         .          .          .          .  15 

Riddle    . 16 

Tease .          .          .  16 

History             .                   ...          .'         .          .          •  l? 

Wisdom i? 

A  Girl  Sings   .          .          .          ,  .       .          .          .  18 

Dolorides  Luna         .          .          .                  •  •          •  18 

Pour  Elle        .          .          .          ...          .          .  19 

Against  Her  Wrath           .          .       ''..        .          .  19 

Wranglers        .          ...          .          .          .  20 

Bittersweet       .          .          .                     ....  20 

Worship           .          .          .                     .          .          .  20 

Two  Men        .          .          .          .          /        .-.       .  21 

Voices .          .  21 

Reawakening   .          .                     .          •  -        •          •  22 

After 22 

Well,  Then     .          /        .          .          ...  23 

Release             .          .          .          .          .          .          .  23 

Episode 24 

Ultima  Verba  Plena  Sapientiae            ...  24 

After  Many  Days    ......  25 

Parting             .          .                     .          .          .          .  25 

The   Poet         .......  25 

Interlude          .......  26 

For  Remembrance    ......  26 

Serene     ........  27 

Semper  Eadem          ....          .          .  27 

Passive              .          .          .          .          .           .           .  28 

Priere  du  Soir           .         -»          ...          .  28 

Confessional    .                     .          «          .          .          .  29 
Passage             ...          .          .          .          .          .29 

Finale     .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .  29 

Mirage              .          .          .          .          .          .          .  3° 

7 


THE  CAPTIVE  YEARS  : 

Autobiographical       ......  33 

Moonlight  Vistas      ......  34 

Friends             .......  34 

Nous  N'Irons  Plus  Au  Bois       .          .          •          •  35 

Primavera        .......  35 

The  Lyric        .......  36 

Difference         .......  36 

Denouement    .......  37 

Arabesque         .......  37 

Captive             .......  37 

Moondown       .......  38 

When  Two  or  Three  Are  Gathered  Together         .  38 

At  the  Death  of  the  Playboy      ....  39 

History  .          .          .          .          .          .          -39 

Chose  Vue        .......  40 

Stranger            .......  40 

Words    ........  40 

Values    ........  41 

Trees      ........  41 

Sheep      ........  42 

A  Mi-Voix       .......  42 

In  Bonos  Magistros  Scribit  Poeta  43 

The  Pedant 43 

Masefield         .......  44 

Warning           .......  44 

Verba  .   .   .  Verbera           .....  45 

Fulfillment      .......  45 

A  SHEAF  OF  SONNETS  : 

Sonnetteers       .......  48 

To  Beauty       .......  48 

Reverie  d'Automne   ......  49 

Les  Cygnes      .......  49 

Sea-Death         .......  50 

The  Actor        .......  50 

The   Violinist            .          .          .          .          .          .  51 

Revanche          .......  52 

Actors     ........  ^2 

Double   ........  53 

8 


Felo  de  Se 53 

La  Donna        .......         54 

Inchoate  .......          54 

A  Voix-Basse 55 

Analysis  .          .          .....          55 

The  Girl          .          .          .          .          .          .          .56 

The  Return  of  the  Prodigal        .          .          .          .          56 

Seeking  and  Finding  Not  .          .          .          .          .          57 

At  Her  Grave -57 

Apologia  pro  Moribus  Suis         ....          58 
Lincoln  .          .          .          .          .          .          .         59 


THE  BURDEN  OF  BEAUTY. 


DEDICATION. 

To  One  whose  name  I  may  not  tell. 

HERE  are  my  songs, 
Such  as  I  make  them ; 
Each  one  belongs 
Unto  you:  take  them. 

I  shall  never  utter 
One  name :  your  name, 
But  let  my  rhymes  flutter 
On  wings  of  flame, 

Till  they  come  to  rest 
In  a  calm,  strange  place, 
White  as  your  breast, 
Fair  as  your  face. 


PASS£E 


A 


MILLION  lovers  plight  their  troth, 
Calling  on  her  to  bless  their  oath. 


She  does  not  shine  more  bright  because 
They  will  be  faithful  to  her  laws; 

She  does  not  hang  her  head  and  weep 
For  brave-made  vows  they  will  not  keep; 

She  looks,  as  ever,  austere  and  cold — 
I  think  the  moon  is  growing  old. 


A  VERY  YOUNG  MAN  SPEAKS  .   .   . 

THE  stars  are  old  and  wise.  Tonight  they  look 
With  such  cold  pity  at  us  that  I  know 
They  see  a  million  lovers  that  forsook 
Vows  by  their  light,  made  centuries  ago ; 
Yet  by  the  still  and  skeptic  stars  above 
I  swear  I  will  be  faithful  in  my  love. 


MOMENT. 

You  smiled  a  little,  shyly, 
Then  suddenly  bowed  your  head ; 
And  all  the  air  was  heavy 
With  things  unsaid. 

The  moment  held  such  magic 
That,  had  I  said  one  word, 
Gently,  you  would  have  answered 
The  plea  you  heard. 

But  I  was  silent,  thinking 

How  frail  our  moods  can  be ; 

And  you,  yourself  once  more,  were  putting 

Sugar  in  my  tea  ! 


A  VERY  YOUNG  GIRL'S  SONG. 

E~TLE  she  cares  for  rare  gems, 
For  gold  or  silver,  little's  her  care ; 
Sunlight  and  moonlight  gild  her  hair 
With  changing  glitter  of  diadems. 

Little  she  cares  for  fine  homes, 
For  stone  mansion,  little's  her  care ; 
God's  sky  is  even-where 
And  over  the  moor  her  lover  roams. 

Little  she  cares  who  mans  ships, 
For  brave  soldier,  little's  her  care; 
Last  night  her  lover  kissed  her  hair, 
Tonight  her  lover  will  kiss  her  lips. 


RIDDLE. 

SINCE  nothing  matters  very  much, 
Why  need  we  dissemble? 
Since  nothing  matters  very  much, 
Tell  me  why  I  tremble 
At  the  mere  chance  touch 
Of  your  white,  cool  hand  ? 

Since  nothing  matters  very  much, 
I  do  not  understand.  . 


TEASE. 

ArD  if  I  were  to  tell  you, 
Pray,  what  would  be  your  gain? 
Conceit  with  being  victor 
And  consequent  disdain? 

Suppose  I  do  not  tell  you, 
Then  sorrow  is  your  share  : 
Rue,  for  being  vanquished ; 
Anger  and  despair. 

Maybe  I  love  you  a  little, 

Or,  possibly,  too  well ; 

Maybe  I  do  not  love  you  at  all — 

Who  can  tell  ? 


16 


HISTORY. 

BECAUSE  a  woman's  lips  were  red, 
Because  a  woman's  breast  was  white, 

One  man  went  forth  into  the  fight 
Following  where  the  battle  led, 
And,  girded  with  resistless  might, 
He  won  a  kingdom  for  his  right. 

Because  a  woman's  lips  were  red, 
Because  a  woman's  breast  was  white, 

One  man  went  forth,  his  soul  alight 
With  the  radiance  her  beauty  shed, 
And  wandering  silent  through  the  night 
Dreamed  of  a  song  for  her  delight. 

The  kingdom  now  is  dust,  thereof 
Nothing  remains  but  desert  sand ; 
The  song  through  many  a  foreign  land 
In  many  a  tongue  proclaims  its  love — 

How  once  a  woman's  lips  were  red, 
How  once  a  woman's  breast  was  white. 


WISDOM. 

SHE  came  with  laughter  in  her  eyes 
And  called  to  me  to  follow  her ; 
But  Time  had  made  my  ardor  wise, 
I  did  not  stir. 

She  came  again  with  wistfulness 
Deep  in  the  shadows  of  her  eyes, 
And  wisdom  was  but  wantonness 
And  tricks  .  .  .  and  lies! 

17 


A  GIRL  SINGS. 

GRIEF  is  gentle  as  warm  rain 
Falling  on  the  April  fields ; 
I  will  bear  my  meed  of  pain 
For  the  wonder  loving  yields. 

I  will  bear  my  meed  of  pain ; 
Love  has  made  my  spirit  proud ; 
Whilst  I  sew,  shall  I  complain 
If  my  veil  become  a  shroud*? 


DOLORIDES  LUNA. 

I    WONDER  what  she  knows  to  keep 
Her  laughing  through  the  years ; 
Her  understanding  must  be  deep 
To  guard  her  soul  from  fears ; 
And  yet,  I  think,  by  day  her  sleep 
Is  miserable  with  tears. 


18 


POUR  ELLE. 

THERE  are  things  of  Beauty  of  which  I  never  shall  tire: 
Moving  seas  and  sea  foam ;  and  the  blue 
Sky  above  the  tall  church  spire ; 
And  the  blue  smoke 
That  rises  from  a  hidden  fire 
Deep  down  in  the  valley ;  flowers ;  dew 
Over  the  green  grasses ;  moonlight  dripping  through 
Sieves  of  silver  foliage,  delicately  intricate  as  lace ; 
Mighty  hills  arising  ever  higher ; 
Long,  sloping  roofs  and  clean  white  houses  under ; 
April  rain ;  flash  of  lightning ;  crash  of  thunder ; 
Children   laughing ;  the  trill   of  meadowlarks ;   and  the  lithe 

grace 

Of  horses  at  a  canter ;  more — and  more — all  true, 
Noble  and  good  and  beautiful  to  view. 

But  best  of  all,  the  wonder, 

The  poignancy  of  you 

As  changing  shadows  creep  across  your  face.  .    .    . 


AGAINST  HER  WRATH. 

I    DO  not  fear  your  righteous  wrath 
One  half  so  much  as  I  would  care 
If  you  walked  down  the  garden  path 
With  sunlight  gleaming  on  your  hair. 


WRANGLERS. 

WHEN  you  are  here  we  quarrel, 
Once  you  are  gone  I  weep, 
In  sheer  despair  I  tear  my  hair 
And  cry  myself  to  sleep. 

There's  too  much  ardor  in  me 
And  nonchalance  in  you ; 
Why  cannot  we  act  sensibly 
As  other  people  do*? 


BITTERSWEET. 

SLOWLY  to  seaward  the  stately  ships, 
White  sails  agleam  against  the  spars, 
The  poignant  wonder  of  your  lips, 
And — the  stars  ! 

Far  away  to  the  fragrant  south 
Somewhere  a  beacon  flashes ; 
Bitter  my  eyes  with  tears,  my  mouth 
Filled  with  ashes. 


WORSHIP. 

You  cannot  know  what  wonder  I  will  pour  on  your  name, 
I  will  raise  it  as  a  flame  with  the  wind  blowing  under, 
I  will  cast  myself  asunder,  to  my  blame,  to  my  shame, 
I  will  shout  it  loud  as  thunder  with  all  heaven  for  a  frame, 
I  will  make  a  living  wonder  of  your  fame. 


20 


TWO  MEN. 

WHEN  the  red  wine  flows  freely  and  the  glasses  clink, 
When  Happiness  winks   up   at  you   from  their  broad 

brim, 

Amid  the  riot  of  music  and  the  sheen  of  light, 
Your  arm  in  his  you  link — 
And  your  desire  and  your  delight 
Are  all  for  him. 

But  when  grey  dawn  steals  in  to  find  you  weary  .  .  .  weary  .  .  . 

And  there  is  only  tinsel  where  brave  gold  should  be, 

When  in  its  harsh  sterility  the  fog-bound  city 

Looms,  desolate  and  dreary, 

Your  tender  loneliness,  your  wistful,  childlike  pity 

Are  all  for  me. 


VOICES. 

VOICES  .   .   .  voices  .   .    .  following  endlessly, 
So  many  beautiful  voices  that  will  not  let  me  be  : 
A  lark's  sudden  trill  of  joy  and  the  deep  cry  of  a  crane 
With  its  harsh,  hoarse  burden,  poignant  as  pain; 
Children's  light  voices,  echoed  in  frolicsome  laughter ; 
Bold,  rough  voices  of  men  that  ring  to  the  highest  rafter; 
Voices,  beautiful  voices.  .    .    . 

.    .    .  And  after 

A  tremulous  shy  whisper,  beyond  sorrow  or  mirth, 
A  still  voice  of  calm  peace  like  the  gentle  April  earth, 
And  bright  as  the  June  sky  with  its  blue  arch  above  you, 
The  voice  I  love  of  all  voices,  whispering.  .   .   . 


21 


REAWAKENING. 

IN  the  lost  moment  of  a  foolish  hour 
I  said :  'My  love  is  fairer  than  a  flower !' 

A  flower  lifts  a  shining  face  to  God, 
Your  eyes  are  set  on  the  small  path  you've  trod ; 
A  flower  brings  wonder  to  a  world  of  pain, 
You  drag  me  from  my  dreams  to  dross  again — 

Pity  the  fool  in  an  unguarded  hour 
Who  sees  a  woman  fairer  than  a  flower ! 


AFTER. 

I    REMEMBER  words  you  said 
Half  in  tears  and  half  in  laughter, 
How  you  vowed  on  your  own  head 
You  would  love  me  ever  after. 

I  remember  dreams  that  slept 
Till  I  wakened  them  for  me ; 
I  remember  how  you  wept 
Glad,  for  Love's  idolatry. 

Strange  it  is  and  full  of  pain 
To  consider  how  our  tears 
Vanished  with  the  April  rain 
In  the  limbo  of  the  years.  .    .    . 


22 


WELL,  THEN.  .   .  . 

L:T  Columbine  be  beautiful 
As  she  alone  can  be, 
She  will  not  bring  him  joy  so  full 
As  that  she  brought  to  me ; 
My  laughter  was  her  music  and 
Her  kisses  were  my  wine, 
No  other  man  can  understand 
The  soul  of  Columbine. 

So  let  him  taste  her  hungry  mouth 

Lifted  in  fierce  appeal, 

Her  lips  as  flame  against  his  drouth 

How  shall  he  ever  feel 

Such  wonder  as  was  mine  to  know 

When  Love  strode  free  of  Pain — 

Her  breasts  twin  pillows  of  white  snow, 

Her  kisses  April  rain*? 


RELEASE. 

I    SHALL  forget  the  sorrow 
You  brought  for  love's  return ; 
Today  or  else  tomorrow 
I  shall  no  longer  yearn. 

The  troubling  wonder  of  you 
I  never  shall  regret ; 
Life,  teaching  me  to  love  you, 
May  teach  me  to  forget. 

And  should  your  name  be  spoken 
By  such  as  knows  us  not, 
My  laughter  shall  be  token 
How  well  I  have  forgot. 


EPISODE. 

SHE  never  deemed  her  love  a  sin, 
She  seemed  only  to  know 
That  all  the  world  spelled  Harlequin 
And  she  must  die — or  go ! 

But  when  young  Pierrot  hanged  himself, 
(Men  said  he  wearied  of  the  earth) 
His  picture  on  her  mantel-shelf 
Assumed  an  actual  worth. 

And  ever  she  played  the  tragic  queen 
No  matter  where  she  went; 
Ignoring  that  his  death  had  been 
A  drunkard's  accident. 


ULTIMA  VERBA  PLENA  SAPIENTIAE. 

WHAT  words  need  be  said4? 
As  though  words  mattered,  as  though  anything  mattered 
Now  you  are  dead. 

Shall  I  grieve  then  <?  shall  I  chide  *? 

As  though  chiding  mattered,  as  though  anything  mattered 

Even  before  you  died. 


24 


AFTER  MANY  DAYS. 

You  were  the  singer,  I, 
I,  the  refrain ; 
You  were  the  shadowy  sky, 
I  was  the  April  rain; 
You  were  the  moon  above, 
I  the  sea  where  it  shone — 
You  who  taught  me  to  love 
Teach  me  to  stand  alone ! 


PARTING. 

His  shadowy  days  are  over, 
He  will  come  ...  no  ...  more, 
The  bee  has  left  the  clover, 
His  shadowy  days  are  over ; 
For  the  last  time  your  rover 
Has  touched  a  foreign  shore; 
His  shadowy  days  are  over, 
He  will  come  ...  no  ...  more ! 


THE  POET. 

I^M  not  rueful 
For  these  vain  hopes  of  mine 
And  all  their  loss — 
How  proudly  beautiful 
All  white  they  shine, 
Nailed  to  the  cross. 


INTERLUDE. 

You  need  not  bare  your  shoulder, 
Nor  loose  your  golden  hair — 
My  heart  grows  colder  .    .    .  colder  . 
I  cannot  care. 

It's  bright  your  proud  eye  flashes, 
And,  spurned,  you  know  not  shame ! 
(You  cannot  kindle  ashes 
To  a  white  flame  !) 

What  profit  to  grow  bolder1? 
Leave  me  and  never  care: 
I  shall  not  kiss  your  shoulder 
Nor  loose  your  hair.  .    .    . 


FOR  REMEMBRANCE. 

WHEN  you  are  old  and  venerable  and  grey, 
And  your  fair  cheek's  sere  as  an  autumn  leaf, 
When  far  beyond  the  toils  of  joy  and  grief 
The  playground  of  your  heart  is  yesterday — 
When  Time  has  made  the  memory  dim 
In  some  mazed  twilight  interim: 

Oh,  will  you  think  how  many  wove  their  woof 

Of  word  and  deed  about  your  life-thread,  made 

Their  bitter  grievances  to  mar,  to  soil 

Its  perfect  beauty ; — how  the  obscure  shade 

Of  silence  shrouded  one  who  stood  aloof 

Lest  with  his  blundering  finger  he  might  spoil? 


26 


SERENE. 

THERE  was  a  woman  once  whose  voice  was  music 
Coursing  through  my  young  veins  like  poisoned  wine, 
But  I  have  forgotten  her,  I  have  forgotten  her, 
Wisdom  is  mine. 

There  was  a  woman  once  had  hands  like  lilies, 
Yet  if  she  stretched  them  beckoning  me  to  her, 
(I  have  found  wisdom,  I  have  found  wisdom!) 
I  would  not  stir. 

There  was  a  woman  once  with  eyes  like  starlight, 
They  told  me  she  was  dead  of  her  despair — 
But  I  have  found  happiness,  I  have  found  happiness ! 
I  do  not  care. 


SEMPER  EADEM. 

CHEEKS  that  are  sunk  and  ashen, 
Eyes  that  weep  in  vain, 
Always  the  same  passion 
In  the  same  senseless  fashion 
And  the  same  pain, 
Forever  beginning  again.  .    .    . 


PASSIVE. 

T  AUGH  softly,  lest  you  stir 

JL/  Old  dreams  of  mine — 

(The  memory  of  her 

Is  poisoned  wine!) 

Nor  let  me  lay  my  throbbing  head 
At  rest  upon  your  curious  knees, 
Lest  I  forget  that  she  is  dead 
And  resurrect  old  ecstasies. 

Dance  gently — do  not  lure  me  on, 
Such  triumph  ends  in  tears — 
I  would  remember  she  is  gone, 
These  many  years.  .    .    . 


PRI£RE  DU  SOIR. 

You  who  are  strong  in  reason 
And  fearless  for  very  pride, 
Teach  me  to  bare  for  a  season 
The  sorrowful  dream  I  hide. 

Teach  me  that  Life  has  a  guerdon 
Meet  for  the  brave  to  seize, 
Help  me  unshoulder  the  burden 
Of  ancient  memories. 

Gold  stars  make  riot  above  me 
But  my  heart  refuses  to  hear — 
You  who  pretend  you  love  me, 
Teach  me  to  laugh  at  fear ! 


28 


CONFESSIONAL. 

THIS  is  not  Love.  Nay,  though  my  fingers  press 
Your  fingers  apart  to  grasp  your  white  hand's  flower, 
For  all  I  have  sworn  I  love  you  and  you  only, 
It  is  because  our  lives  are  empty  .   .   .  lonely  .   .   . 
Our  solitudes  are  met  in  one  small  hour: 
What  we  call  Love  is  born  of  idleness. 


PASSAGE. 

SHE  brought  a  glimmer  of  light 
To  break  our  gloom, 
But  so  cold,  impassive — 

She  was  a  candle 
In  a  dead  room ! 


FINALE. 

VERY  soon 
The  thread 
Will  be  broken- 
No  word  more 
Will  be  spoken 
Very  soon — 
What  we  said 
Will  not  matter 
Very  soon  .   .   . 

Very  soon 

I  shall  be  dead! 


29 


MIRAGE. 

Am  all  of  it  is  laughter 
That  moves  us  an  hour 
And  vanishes  after, 
Or  tears  .    .   .  tears  .    .   . 
Deep — without  power 
Over  the  years. 


THE  CAPTIVE  YEARS. 


AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL. 

WHAT  are  you  doing  in  Berkeley*?'  I  laughed  and  shook 
my  head : 
'I  am  doing  the  same  as  ever  I  did  anywhere,'  I  said. 

'There  were  Sussex  downs  and  rain-drenched  gorse  and  sun 
light  on  the  heather, 

There  was  Devonshire  and  a  galloping  horse,  a  frenzied  pack 
on  a  break-neck  course 

In  crisp   hunting  weather. 

'There  were  Paris  days  with  ingenious  ways  of  youthful  deca 
dence, 

And  a  Pennsylvania  campus  and  studious  pretence, 

There  were  brown  files  in  Flanders  mud  and  good  friends 
slain, 

Friends  in  pain  and  pleasure  as  never  friends  again ! 

'And  now — I  am  in  Berkeley !  Rueful  I  shake  my  head : 
It's  exactly  the  same  as  ever  it  was  for  all  words  said, 
The  same  as  ever  anywhere  in  spite  of  Flanders  dead. 

'There's  something  I  go  seeking,  I  throw  my  life  away 
In  striving  to  be  at  one  with  them,  to  be  both  grave  and  gay, 
To  share  their  pain  and  pleasure,  to  know  what  doubts  they 
weigh. 

'Ere  ever  I  break  away  from  me  my  old  faults  win, 
Something  I  cannot  fathom,  secret  as  a  sin, 
Keeps  me  apart  from  all  their  heart  till  Hope  grows  spectre- 
thin, 

'And  ends  as  baffled  hope  must,  in  reasonless  disgust ; 
Vain  as  kisses  from  one  blind,  bitter  to  taste  as  dust, 
And  I  eat  my  heart  out  as  acid  eats  rust.' 

'What  are  you  doing  in  Berkeley?' — Laughing,  I  shook  my 

head — 

'I  am  doing  the  same  as  ever  I  did  anywhere,'  I  said, 
'The  old  dreams  ...  the  old  loss  .    .    .  stones  for  bread !' 

(For  Leonard  Bacon.) 

33 


MOONLIGHT  VISTAS. 

A:ROSS  the  wall 
Of  my  bare  room 
The  moving  jets 
Of  moonlight  fall, 
Etching  strange  figures 
That  recall 
The  madcap  march 
Of  marionettes 
From  carnival 
To  tomb. 


FRIENDS. 

THIS  blundering,  kindly  gesture 
That  moves  you  to  sudden  mirth 
Is  tragic  and  final  as  only 
Things  dying  at  birth. 

I  would  make  of  my  heart  a  measure 
To  span  the  gulf  of  your  heart, 
But  ere  my  hands  reach  you,  coldly 
You  are  drawing  apart. 

I  have  tried  to  find  you,  but  always 
I  have  been  shy  and  slow — 
What  manner  of  man  you  really  are 
I  never  shall  know. 


34 


NOUS  N'IRONS  PLUS  AU  BOIS. 

THE  woods  tonight  are  magical  with  silence 
After  the  music  that  the  wild  winds  made ; 
As  a  shy  votary  before  an  altar 
The  moon  holds  up  a  candle  to  the  glade. 

Great  clouds  like  incense  smoke  arise  before  it, 
And,  of  a  sudden,  all  is  dark  once  more ; 
Earth  broods  regretfully  to  have  forgotten 
The  smiling  face,  a  moment  gone,  she  wore. 

A  hundred  things  that  I  would  not  remember 
Rise  up  to  haunt  me  in  this  solitude, 
My  heart  is  bitter-sweet  as  woody  nightshade; 
I  shall  not  go  again  into  the  wood. 

(For  Harold  Final.) 


PRIMAVERA. 

FAINT  echoes  of  autumnal  tears 
Linger  in  the  April  rain, 
As  though  Earth,  sober  for  her  years, 
Could  not  be  wholly  glad  again, 

And,  with  leaves  dripping,  yonder  oak 
Bows  down  against  the  shadowy  sky, 
Like  some  sad  Argus  whose  heart  broke, 
Weeping,  nor  ever  knowing  why. 


THE  LYRIC. 

You  take  a  little  round  stone,  you  smooth  it, 
You  polish  its  surface  and  carve  your  name 
With  the  deft  firm  hand  of  a  craftsman  who  loves 
To  bring  sheer  beauty  to  merely  a  game. 

It  glints  like  moonlight  on  throbbing  waters, 
It  fits  in  its  frame  like  a  gem  in  a  ring, 
You  finish  it,  lay  it  beside  its  fellows 
Deep  in  the  folds  of  your  cunning  sling. 

Some  day  you  use  it:  your  shot  goes  flying 
In  charming  curve  with  the  heavens  for  mark — 
The  silence  is  broken  by  poignant  music, 
A  sudden  radiance  breaks  through  the  dark ! 

(For  Charles  Mills  Gayley.) 


DIFFERENCE. 

FOR  you  the  lure  of  April  is  the  glory 
Of  conquering  love  that  daunts  the  brightest  stars ; 
April  for  me  is  but  a  tragic  story 
Of  ancient  enmities  and  battle  scars. 

Autumn  brings  you  the  pleasant  melancholy 
Of  lovely  things  remembered  gratefully, 
But  I  find  in  it  memories  of  folly, 
And  haunting  grief  that  will  not  let  me  be. 

So,  whilst  you  pass  your  days  in  light  and  music, 
Considering  Pain  but  an  old  Turk  to  beard, 
My  heart  stores  the  sad  harvest  of  its  rue,  sick 
For  things  desired  too  much  and  too  much  feared. 


DENOUEMENT. 

A  FADING  dart  of  crimson  and  the  sun  has  set ; 
On  the  listless  face  of  the  waters,  a  solitary  ship's  light 

gleams, 

The  waves'  monotonous  break  is  low  as  a  dirge  and  dreary. 
I  have  not  shed  a  glimmer  of  light  in  my  life — and  yet 
My  hope  is  dead,  my  desire  spent,  and  ended  my  dreams, 
Even  my  heartache  is  healed :  I  am  hopelessly  weary. 


ARABESQUE. 

GENTLY  Night  folds  her  bluish  veil 
Over  the  weary  limbs  of  Earth, 
The  lambent  waters  plash  unheard, 
Mirroring  the  moon's  lank  face ; 
Far  to  the  westward  a  crooked  sail 
Bellies  as  one  with  senile  mirth, 
And  the  lone  cry  of  a  stray  bird 
Is  as  a  damned  man's  prayer  for  grace. 

(For  A.G.H.  Spiers.) 


CAPTIVE. 

HE  that  hath  lost  his  soul  though  he  conquer  a  world 
Shall  not  be  made  whole  when  the  last  flag  is  furled. 
The  silver  goblet  in  his  hand  shall  be  as  ashes ;  rust 
Shall  eat  his  bravely  gleaming  brand  to  a  little,  reddish  dust, 
And  in  the  moonlight's  streams  of  gold  it  shall  be  his  to  see 
The  shining  pence  for  which  he  sold  his  mortal  mastery. 


37 


MOONDOWN. 

MOONLIGHT  .    .    .   and  foam  of  the  sea  . 
When  I  shall  tire  of  singing 
Your  solemn  witchery — 
When  Beauty  shall  fail  in  bringing 
Its  poignancy — 
Dead  may  I  be ! 


WHEN  TWO  OR  THREE  ARE  GATHERED 
TOGETHER.  .    .    . 

THERE  were  five  men  in  that  place; 
One,  with  a  sneer, 
Spat  in  the  corpse's  face, 
Saying :  'God  is  here  !' 

One  made  a  proud  jest, 

'Come  unto  me  all  ye 

Who  weary,  I  will  give  ye  rest  .    .    . 

Indeed*? — '  quoth  he. 

One  laughed :  'A  pretty  King 
Worthy  of  the  Jews!' 
One :  'Among  three  rogues  who  swing 
There's  little  to  choose!' 

One,  fearing  lest  he  blunder, 
Silent,  stood  by; 
Lost  in  a  piteous  wonder  .    .   . 
(Was  it  I?) 


AT  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  PLAYBOY. 

OBUT  it's  lonely  the  Playboy  is  now,  lonely  as  the  moon 
o'  dawn, 

Cold  he  is  and  silent  like  the  deadness  o'  the  night ; 
How  dark  it  is  about  him  with  the  curtain  drawn, 
Little's  the  cheer  there  is  for  him  in  the  candlelight. 

He  was  shy  as  a  poor  dumb  beast  of  the  fields,  and  many's 

the  time,  many's  the  time 
He  looked  deep  from  his  deep  eyes  nor  was  after  speaking  a 

word, 
But  sometimes  he  wove  a  pattern  like  lace,  twisting  the  threads 

of  music  and  rhyme 
To  a  song  like  the  Lady  Mary  was  singing  when  Holy  Michael 

heard. 

O  but  it's  lonely  the  Playboy  is,  lonely  in  death  and  cold 

If  Father  Reilly's  words  be  messengers  of  Truth, 

But  it's  my  mind  he's  sitting  in  Heaven  strumming  a  harp  of 

gold, 
With  Christ  after  hearing  the  music  and  Mary  a-dreaming  on 

her  youth.  .    .   . 


HISTORY. 

WE  make  deep  footprints 
In  the  snow, 
That  all  may  see 
The  way  we  go. 
Nor  have  we  felt 
Our  gesture  vain, 
Though  the  snows  melt 
Beneath  the  rain. 

(For  F.  F.  Peabody.) 

39 


CHOSE  VUE. 

SUDDENLY 
The  leering  moon  pressed 
Yellow,  lecherous  fingers 
On  the  fear-laden 
Breast 
Of  the  white,  throbbing  sea — 

As  in  the  forest  lingers 

A  shepherd  boy  to  see 

The  satyr  and  the  cringing  maiden, 

Possessed.  .    .    . 

So  watched  I  silently. 


STRANGER. 

WHAT  simple  joys  were  you  denied? 
What  hope  in  you  was  crucified  *? 
That  there  should  shine  about  your  soul 
Wistf ulness,  like  an  aureole  *? 


WORDS. 

A,L  your  words  are  slaves  that  stand 
Schooled  and  governed  to  obey 
Whatsoever  you  command, 
Words  are  deeds  beneath  your  sway. 

Words  of  mine  are  foolish  things, 
Ineffectual  though  fair, 
Like  a  callow  girl  that  sings 
Beautifully  of  despair ! 

40 


VALUES. 

MY  words  are  wings 
On  which  I  fly, 
My  words  are  winds 
That  bear  me  high. 

Your  words  are  gold 
In  weight  and  worth — 
Ah !  how  they  hold 
You  fast  to  Earth ! 


TREES. 

THE  trees  tonight  are  heavy  with  distress, 
Bowed  down  in  contemplation  on  Earth's  grief, 
And  never  a  wind  blowing  with  wantonness 
Will  clasp  in  his  rough  grasp  a  truant  leaf 
To  brush  against  their  bony  nakedness. 

Nothing  can  be  more  baleful  than  gaunt  trees, 
Sketched  in  harsh  outline  on  the  drape  of  Night, 
Like  gnarled,  scarred  hands  that  have  done  miseries, 
But  now,  being  powerless  and  without  might, 
Implore  the  aid  of  one  who  never  sees. 

Nothing  can  be  more  baleful  than  these  are, 
Most  tragic  penitents  whose  company 
Renders  them  only  lonelier  by  far, 
Nothing  is  sadder  than  a  naked  tree 
Against  a  sky  too  bleak  to  hold  a  star. 


SHEEP. 

You  did  not  know  him  while  he  walked  among  you, 
Bent  on  your  ways  you  were  too  full  of  pride; 
You  never  listened  to  the  songs  he  sung  you, 
He  called  you  once — then  never  after  tried. 

Now  he  is  dead,  I  wonder  which  is  fitter : 

That  you  ignored  him  then  or  praise  him  now? 

I  wonder  which  of  them  he  finds  more  bitter : 

The  quick  hand  spurned  or  the  dead  laurelled  brow  ? 


A  MI-VOIX. 

(After  the  French  of  A.  Hudy.) 

IF  a  dream  you  seek 
Should  once  gleam  bright, 
To  no  man  speak 
Of  your  delight. 

If  the  swaying  bough 
Bring  shade  to  you, 
Let  its  green  brow 
Be  all  your  view. 

Take  you  Love's  rose 
Homeward,  but  mind  you 
Be  sure  to  close 
Your  door  behind  you.  .    .    . 

(For  Regis  Michaud.) 


42 


IN  BONOS  MAGISTROS  SCRIBIT  POET  A. 

I    AM  a  vagabond, 
I  owe 

Blood  and  bond 
To  Clement  Marot 
And  to  Sir  Guy  of  Trebizond. 

Villon  nursed  me, 

Rhymes  my  milk; 

GeofTroi  Rudel  rehearsed  me 

In  wearing  lyric  silk; 

Ah!  how  schoolmasters  cursed  me! 

Marlowe  spun  me  lies 
In  verse, 

And  for  a  woman's  eyes 
I  might  do  worse 
Than  poetise. 

We  need  no  roof 
For  shelter, 
Who  give  proof 
Helter-skelter 
Of  a  cloven-hoof — 

(For  Dan  Murphy.) 


THE  PEDANT. 

PELICAN-LIKE  he  wags  his  greyish  head 
And  his  raised  arms  are  like  the  wings  of  birds; 
He  may  have  dreamed  once,  but  his  dream  is  dead, 
Choked  as  he  grubbed  in  tomes  for  roots  of  words ; 
So  whilst  through  lexicons  his  fingers  roam 
In  philologic  hunt,  he  has  forgot 
How  crimson  roses  flamed  through  ancient  Rome 
And  slender  lilies  shone  in  Camelot! 

43 


MASEFIELD. 

His  song  is  a  magic 
Stream 

Down  from  a  white  peak; 
And  as  I  hear  him  speak 
He  seems  like  one  bewitched  in  dream 
By  his  own  music. 


WARNING. 

T  AST  night  I  dreamed 

1  j  Death  passed  by  me; 

Her  wild  eyes  gleamed 

Alluringly, 

I  think  she  seemed 

To  beckon  me. 

I  did  not  dare 
To  rise  and  go, 
I  could  but  stare 
Frightened ;  and  so 
She  left  me  there — 
And  yet  I  know 

She  will  return 
Here  to  my  bed, 
And  though  I  yearn 
To  stay,  instead 
My  feet  will  turn 
The  way  she  led. 


44 


VERBA  .    .   .  VERBERA. 

THE  words  you  spoke 
Were  delicate  .    .    .  elusive, 
So  many  butterflies 
Flashing  in  the  sunlight — 

The  words  you  would  not  speak 
Were  heavy  .    .    .  ultimate : 
Stones  dropped 
Into  still  pools. 


FULFILLMENT. 

BECAUSE  I  have  always  striven 
To  keep  my  senses  pure, 
My  sins  shall  be  forgiven 
By  the  Lord  God,  I  am  sure — 
And  because  I  have  freely  given 
Some  of  my  dreams  shall  endure. 

(For  Frederic  Le  Clercq.) 


A  SHEAF  OF  SONNETS. 


SONNETTEERS. 

THESE  men  being  proud  of  their  deep  gift  of  thought 
Were  ever  unwilling  that  their  mood  find  speech 
In  facile  utterance,  within  the  reach 
Of  shallow  minds ;  with  loving  care  they  wrought 
A  golden  background  for  their  pictures,  brought 
A  deft  hand  disciplined  by  toil  to  each 
Dream  they  expressed.  And  as  the  masters  teach 
They  were  content  to  learn.  Sometimes  one  caught 
A  note  of  music  or  a  gleam  of  light 
Unknown  before  of  man ;  sometimes  they  seemed 
Gladly  to  follow  the  appointed  way ; 
Beauty  they  held  so  rare  as  to  delight 
In  polishing  her  jewels  till  they  gleamed 
Like  sudden  sunshine  on  a  winter's  day. 


TO  BEAUTY. 

BEAUTY,  be  close  to  me,  go  by  my  side 
Constant  through  life;  I  need  you  most  of  all. 
I  will  be  true  to  you,  and  where  you  call 
I  will  obey  you,  Beauty.  Oh,  abide 
Deep  in  me ;  keep  me  young ;  let  my  dreams  ride 
Like  clouds  over  the  earth — I  fear  the  thrall 
Of  knowledge  and  satiety,  the  gall 
Of  senses  jaded  or  of  joy  denied. 

Always  remain  beside  me ;  be  my  friend ; 
Let  me  discover  you  with  wondering  eyes 
In  the  most  simple  things :  a  swaying  tree, 
A  flower  that  the  gentle  breezes  bend, 
A  lark  trilling  his  joy  in  the  June  skies, 
The  steadfast  hills  and  the  eternal  sea.  .    .    . 

(For  H.  L.  Mencken.) 

48 


REVERIE  D5  AUTOMNE. 

THE  woods  are  lyrical  with  echoings 
Of  Summer's  music.  Soft  and  far  away 
A  nightingale,  bidding  farewell  to  Day, 
Sings  ancient  roses  and  forgotten  things. 
The  woods  are  lyrical.     About  them  clings 
Remembered  words  they  heard  young  lovers  say 
In  whisperings,  while  hearts  made  holiday 
Deeming  them  all-unheard.  The  evening  flings 
A  mauve,  gossamer  veil  over  the  trees, 
The  pale  moon  crooks  her  slender,  argent  finger 
Against  the  bluish  sky;  down  in  the  dell, 
Darkness  is  crouched,  as  one  whose  memories 
Bid  him  lie  close  to  earth  awhile  and  linger 
In  thought  on  secrets  that  he  will  not  tell. 


LES  CYGNES. 

I    HAVE  watched  swans  .   .    .  drifting  .    .    .  languorously 
Down  placid  pools  and  stirring  scarce  a  ripple 
On  the  smooth  surface  that  shone  glassily, 
The  tips  of  their  red  mouths  round  as  a  nipple 
Or,  opened  wide,  as  sharp  as  points  that  stipple 
Sinuous,  rare  designs ;  ail-dreamily 
Craning  their  slim  necks  forward  in  a  triple 
Beauty  of  movement,  line  and  symmetry. 

I  have  watched  swans  with  such  a  curious  care 

That  all  their  movements  are  become  for  me 

Token  of  the  eternal  beautiful : 

A  flash  of  light  across  a  silent  pool, 

A  thing  created  but  that  it  might  be 

For  them  that  watch  a  wonder  and  despair. 


49 


SEA-DEATH. 

WAVES  and  white  foam-froth  shall  wash  over  me 
And  barren  sea-flower  float  above  my  head, 
I  perish  as  proud  kings  have  perished, 
Helpless  before  the  power  of  the  sea. 
The  wet  wind  wails  my  requiem ;  I  shall  see 
Fair  women  with  long  tresses,  meet  to  bed 
In  Caesar's  company;  and  with  these  dead 
Soon  shall  I  be  as  one — eternally. 

Rich  gems  of  Tyre,  treasures  from  Ind  have  lain 
Long  in  the  hold  of  countless  sunken  ships, 
The  crowns  of  queens  are  tarnished  with  sea-rust ; 
Amid  their  pageantry  I  shall  foil  pain, 
Kiss  life  into  the  ashes  of  dead  lips, 
Mingling  with  some  drowned  Cleopatra's  dust. 

(For  Ralph  Roeder.) 


THE  ACTOR. 

THIRTY  long  years  he  had  been  on  the  stage, 
Thirty  short  lines  had  been  his  longest  part, 
You  would  have  thought  that  long  ago  his  heart 
Would  have  grown  bitter  after  such  an  age 
Of  futile  toil ;  yet  in  the  narrow  cage 
He  called  his  room,  I  heard  him  walk  apart, 
Deep  in  the  richest  lore  of  classic  art, 
Evoking  Hamlet's  doubt,  Othello's  rage, 
Faustus'  magic.   .    .    . 

.    .    .   Late  into  the  night 
He  lived  another  life  and  gladly  died 
Three  deaths  forever  consecrate  to  sorrow ; 
The  wonder  spent,  an  hour  before  the  light 
Of  Dawn  would  break,  he  sat  on  his  hard  bed, 
Speaking  ere  sleep  his  farce-lines  for  the  morrow. 

50 


THE  VIOLINIST. 

THERE  is  a  silence  where  Life  dare  not  speak 
Lest  the  heart  break.  An  inarticulate 
Sigh  falls  from  lips  weary  and  satiate 
For  things  too  much  desired. 

And  yet  you  seek 

With  guileless  confidence  in  mere  technique 
Mechanically  to  disintegrate 
Secrets  too  dim  for  light  to  penetrate ; 
You  crucify  Love  on  the  lofty  peak 
Of  the  mad  bow  you  handle. 

Ah,  let  be ! 

For  far  beyond  Thought's  realm,  an  unknown  love 
Sways  us  too  beautifully  to  understand — 
Ah,  stay  your  skilful  fratricidal  hand, 
Lest  we  should  laugh  before  the  failure  of 
Your  trifling  show  of  virtuosity. 


REVANCHE. 

DREAMER  and  fool,  they  call  him.  Yet,  in  bygone  days, 
Huge  hosts  were  marshalled  did  his  hand  but  sweep  the 

lyre, 

Great  empires  crumbled  when  kings  heard  his  lays, 
He  loved  a  woman's  face — and  Troy  was  set  afire. 
They  deem  him  niggard,  fouling  him  with  their  derision 
Vain  oaf  who  must  needs  hitch  his  waggon  to  a  star, 
Columbus,  fool  of  fools  with  a  distorted  vision, 
Or  an  ambitious  cheat. 

The  great  dreams  are 
Purchased  by  heart's  blood  spilled  through  nights  of  bitter 

weeping 

In  anguish  of  the  body,  in  the  soul's  vexation, 
Till  the  years  pass.  Over  his  bones  the  worm  is  creeping 
But  that  man's  folly  is  the  spirit  of  a  nation: 
Live,  spirit  of  the  paltry  clown  the  crowds  deride, 
Smile  as  they  pray  to  you,  pale  Christ  they  crucified ! 


ACTORS. 

SOME  few,  perhaps,  knew  what  it  meant  to  hear 
Loud  thunders  of  appreciative  applause; 
These  men  I  cannot  pity  much,  because 
When  they  are  old,  in  memory  they  appear 
Once  more  on  stages  where  they  were  held  dear, 
Living  old  triumphs  over :  this  one  thaws 
Stern  men  to  warmth  of  mirth,  another  draws 
From  the  most  dull  a  tribute  in  a  tear. 

But  oh !  the  countless  hosts  of  men  who  knew 

Only  the  drudgery  of  night  on  night 

Playing  their  little  moment  generously 

Saw  others  pass  them  by  while  wearily 

Dream  after  dream  slipped  from  their  wistful  sight- 

The  many  ladders  for  the  fame  of  few ! 

52 


DOUBLE. 

WITHIN  my  being  are  two  men :  one,  old, 
My  spirit,  and  the  other  young,  my  flesh — 
The  ancient  has  absorbed  what  truths  books  hold, 
Stored  in  his  mind  their  lore  is  ever  fresh; 
The  youngster  cries  for  moons  of  his  desire 
Nor  brooks  denial ;  with  mad  energy 
He  leaps  at  stars  and  falls  into  the  mire 
And,  in  his  fall,  is  lost.  Audaciously 
He  drinks  too  deep  the  wine  of  carnival 
And  as  he  does  so,  guilefully  his  mate 
Poisons  the  potion:  bitter  as  only  gall 
The  liquor  burns  the  heart  of  him,  too  late 
To  change  his  ways  or  ever  seek  to  quell 
The  sorry  conflict  that  is  each  man's  hell. 

(For  Philip  Leidy.) 


FELO  DE  SE. 

WHEN  I  consider  how  my  life  is  bound 
Forever  by  Fatality's  harsh  chain, 
What  petty  joy  and  nugatory  pain 
Confine  me  in  the  squalor  of  their  round ; 
How  utterly  complacency  has  wound 
Its  tendrils  round  my  unresisting  brain ; 
In  what  morass  of  sloth  my  soul  has  lain ; 
How  my  will's  granite  into  dust  is  ground; 

I  wonder  how  they  fare :  Egypt's  proud  queen 
Who  fed  the  asps  upon  her  delicate  flesh, 
The  pale-faced  boy  who  in  a  garret  mean 
Drank  poison  with  the  lips  old  song  made  fresh ; 
The  captain,  losing  all  on  a  far  strand, 
Who  vanquished  Life  with  one  blow  of  his  hand. 

53 


LA  DONNA.  .   .   . 

YES,  you  are  modern  enough.  You  have  the  strong 
Self-conquered  independence  of  our  day, 
Few  are  the  things  you  dare  not  do  or  say 
And  nothing  you  may  care  to  do  is  wrong — 
But  sometimes,  like  a  half-forgotten  song 
Whose  notes  on  the  dazed  senses  vaguely  play, 
The  wraith  of  some  dead  sprite  of  yesterday 
Takes  hold  on  you  and  bears  your  heart  along, 
Mingles  and  mixes  with  you,  is  yourself, 
Gives  you  the  carefree  air,  the  artless  grace, 
The  half-shy  and  half-wanton  abandon 
Of  a  nymph  dancing.   .    .    . 

In  my  serious  face 

You  laugh  .    .    .  mock  .    .    .  beckon  .    .    .  O  elusive  elf, 
And  madly  I  give  chase.  .    .    .  And  you  are  gone! 


INCHOATE. 

SPEECH  is  so  old, 
Love  is  so  rare — 
Must  I  compare 
Your  hair  to  gold  ? 
What  verse  could  hold 
Lights,  like  your  hair4? 
Oh,  I  despair 
Ever  to  mould 
Something  that  stands 
Like  marble  hewed 
And  carved  by  hands 
Deft,  for  Love's  duty; 
Song  is  too  crude 
To  speak  your  beauty. 


A  VOIX-BASSE. 

EtE  as  the  awaited  storm-beleaguered  ships, 
Reaching  the  end  of  their  most  perilous  quest, 
Into  the  haven  sail  with  many  a  chest 
Teeming  with  gold  doubloons ;  as  the  moon  dips 
Her  crescent  whilst  coquettishly  she  slips 
Into  the  clouds'  embrace  to  sleep  at  rest — 
So  have  I  found  my  peace  upon  your  breast, 
My  dear  oblivion  on  your  poppied  lips. 

Lest  Earth  be  plunged  in  darkness  too  profound 
Since  your  bright  eyes  were  dimmed  by  shadowed  sleep 
Ten  thousand  stars  shine  in  the  heaven  above — 
A  brooding  pain  about  my  heart  is  wound — 
Ah,  lover — let  me  weep  the  tears  of  love 
For  I  am  young — and  it  is  good  to  weep ! 


ANALYSIS. 

BEING  timid  of  Life,  we  must  needs  hide 
Behind  the  ambushed  equivoke  of  speech, 
And  the  vague  words  we  utter  cannot  reach 
That  storm  of  wonder  where  our  dreams  would  ride 
Had  we  but  courage.  Things  we  never  tried 
Haunt  us  a  moment,  then  are  lost ;  we  teach 
Our  reason  strength  in  disappointment,  each 
Holding  he  does  not  wish  what  is  denied. 

If  only  we  made  circumstance,  we  two ! 

If  only  I  would  dare  all  without  fear 

Of  your  misunderstanding,  you  would  hear 

And  hearing,  know,  and  knowing,  seize  the  gift 

That  with  shy,  blundering  hands  daily  I  lift — 

Poor  fools  undone  by  what  we  will  not  do ! 

55 


THE  GIRL. 

THERE  was  in  you  a  childlike  wistfulness 
Lying  heavy  on  the  merest  thing  you  did, 
And  deep  in  your  deep  eyes  seemed  to  be  hid 
Vague  longings  that  you  never  dared  express. 
How  frail  you  were,  how  clearly  powerless ! 
And  life  ? — A  chest  of  gems  whose  heavy  lid 
You  could  not  lift  alone ;  therefore  you  bid 
Others  to  succor  you  in  your  distress. 

So  others  did  those  things  that  were  your  fear, 
Others  accomplished  deeds  you  held  in  scorn, 
Gladly  they  held  your  meed  of  pain  in  trust ; 
Life  is  a  singing  voice  you  never  hear, 
A  diadem  you  never  will  have  worn, 
A  glory  you  have  forfeited — for  dust ! 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  PRODIGAL. 

I   TRIED  to  conjure  up  apt  words  to  say, 
You  must  forget  I  was  but  late  returned, 
I  would  act  as  I  used  to  yesterday — 
Try  as  I  would  I  could  not  .    .    . 

And  I  learned 

How  many  sad  things  Time  can  thrust  between 
Two  people  in  a  year,  and  how  words  said 
Cannot  be  changed,  whatever  they  might  mean, 
How  there's  no  morrow  for  the  Love  that's  dead. 

We  scarcely  spoke  save  to  pass  platitudes, 

You  said :  'What  weather  !  Look,  how  the  rain  drips  !' 

I  struck  conventional,  dull  attitudes — 

(Before  my  misty  eyes   swam  your   red   lips!) 

And  coldly  shook  your  hand  like  a  chance  friend, 

This  was  the  irremediable  end. 

56 


SEEKING  AND  FINDING  NOT. 

MOST  beautiful  and  best  I  said  were  you, 
Strange  how  I  brought  myself  to  think  such  lies ; 
There  are  on  earth  a  thousand  things  I  prize 
More  dearly,  being  more  noble  and  more  true ; 
Dawn's  paean ;  Sunset's  dirge ;  meadows  that  dew 
Stirs  to  shy  whispers ;  lavish  hills  that  rise 
Stark-bosomed  to  the  vault  of  pearl-grey  skies ; 
Warm  rain  of  April ;  moonlight  bursting  through 
Branches  the  breeze  shakes. 

There  is  far  more  grace 
In  the  brave  beauty  of  tall-masted  ships 
Riding  to  sea  than  queenliest  women  find 
In  stately  movement.  Nay — I  have  been  blind! 
And  yet,  the  poignancy  of  your  red  lips ! 
The  wonder  of  your  pale  remembered  face! 


AT  HER  GRAVE. 

WEEP  not !  Your  tears 
Can  bring  no  balm 
To  one  who  hears 
Naught  in  the  calm 
Of  the  deep  grave 
Wherein  she  lies   .    .    . 
Go  hence !  Re  brave  ! 
Everything  dies. 

The  fairest  flower 
Lives  but  a  day, 
Love  knows  one  hour 
Then  ebbs  away — 
What  man  has  power 
Death's  hand  to  stay? 


57 


APOLOGIA  PRO  MORIBUS  SUIS. 

YES,  bitterly  I  criticise 
But  am  no  cynic.  For  I  heap 
Insult  on  all,  that  I  may  keep 
Sacred  what  I  idealise. 
Too  well  I  hold  before  my  eyes 
The  sad  fruit  sympathy  would  reap ; 
Therefore,  my  soul  in  scorn  I  steep, 
It  is  my  way  of  being  wise. 

Once,  in  my  unregenerate  days 
I  might  have  walked  those  simple  ways 
Which,  selfishly,  you  would  not  share ; 
Now  I  have  found  in  my  own  heart 
Treasures  in  which  you  have  no  part, 
So  why  need  either  of  us  care*? 


LINCOLN. 

(For  a  Head  of  Lincoln  by  Borglum.) 

I. 

THERE  is  no  radiance  gathered  round  his  head, 
He  is  not  clothed  in  flame  nor  shod  with  light, 
No  great  world  cowers  fearful  in  his  sight, 
No  giant  empire  trembles  at  the  tread 
Of  his  triumphant  feet;  ungarlanded, 
Free  from  all  sign  of  pomp  however  slight 
He  looks  on  us  from  out  the  curious  night 
That  makes  him  one  with  the  eternal  dead, 
As  who  should  look  who  lived  his  little  span 
Of  governed  days;  who  knew  deep  joy;  who  gave 
The  full  possession  of  his  work  and  dreams — 
(Sometimes  he  looked  almost  grotesque,  it  seems,) 
So  when  he  died  they  laid  him  in  his  grave 
A  humble,  somewhat  melancholy  man. 

II. 

The  man  was  humble  but  of  boundless  pride, 

He  never  stooped  to  flattery,  no  art 

Of  trickery  was  in  his  ways :  his  part 

Was  to  speak  out  his  mind  and  ever  abide 

By  what  he  said ;  he  had  no  need  to  hide 

Behind  the  equivoke  of  speech,  to  dart 

Swift  to  advantage  of  deceit.    His  heart 

Was  loyal  to  his  people.    He  defied 

The  people's  foes,  moved  valiantly  among 

Such  men  as  strongly  waged  the  people's  fight 

Regardless  of  the  bitter  price  to  pay — 

Our  greatest  homage  to  his  name  today 

Lies  in  the  words :  He  read  his  people  aright, 

He  listened  to  their  heart,  he  spoke  their  tongue ! 


III. 

Let  but  this  land  be  suddenly  plunged  in  gloom, 

After  all  things  attempted  are  found  vain, 

Out  of  the  welter  of  folly,  crime  and  pain, 

The  last  hope  dead,  the  last  word  said,  no  room 

For  aught  but  dark  despair  and  bitter  gloom, 

Then  cry  one  name  to  rouse  souls  that  have  lain 

Dull  from  disuse,  to  arm  weak  hands,  to  train 

The  rusted  rifle  on  its  mark,  to  boom 

Out  of  the  cannon's  mouth ;  on  bayonets 

To  flash  proud  in  the  sunlit  summer  weather 

Across  the  tattered  field  like  a  white  flame — 

There  is  one  name  no  countryman  forgets. 

To  rally  all  America  together 

For  the  good  fight,  you  need  but  cry  one  name. 


60 


PRINTED  IN  THE   UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 


LOAN  DEPT. 


.1 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


JjJWW  ?  21_~  

REC'CTLD 

NfW    4  1959 

iMU  »  3C  —  liJU*/ 

—  n 

— 

LD  2lA-50m-4,'59 
(A1724slO)476B 


General  Library     m 
University  of  California 
Berkeley 


